


Ashes from the Deep

by elriel_oblivion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Elriel, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elriel_oblivion/pseuds/elriel_oblivion
Summary: Elain washes Azriel's hair
Relationships: Elain Archeron & Azriel, Elain Archeron/Azriel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

__

The shadows were colder than usual tonight. On better days, their chill wrapped Azriel's bones in an icy embrace, a comforting freeze numbing any semblance of feeling in his wasted heart. 

But this miserable night, they were searing cold, the kind of cold piercing the highest of mountain peaks; the kind of cold that penetrated the brain itself. He shivered as he travelled through those shadows, dark mists and wisps coiling like vines about his head. 

Maybe he was deliberately searching for the coldest areas. Maybe he wanted a complete absence of feeling: physical, emotional, spiritual. It would certainly be easier to feel nothing than trying to quell the frigid rage inside. How could an avalanche be stopped once it started? 

Further and further he moved through his shadows, dawn chasing him from a few hours away. Mountains and villages surged past through those charcoal mists, making way to depthless forests and ravines. He clenched his jaw tight against the cold, memory guiding him home. 

But the fresh blood he'd seen earlier, and the mutilated remains of that little girl, one wing torn off and lying bent at the edge of the dirt path ... Her unseeing eyes were glazed, that shine as bright and true on his mind as the glint of moonlight on the blade of Death. And her scream. Cauldron, it curdled his own blood. 

He'd been but a minute late. A matter of seconds were all that stood between him and the sadistic bastard who'd brutalised that child. Barely a heartbeat in his lifetime. 

He blinked once to rid himself of her stare. Twice. 

The image remained, muddying with his path home. His hands clenched and unclenched, nails biting into his skin, but the girl's hazel eyes and her ashen skin and the fingers outstretched for that severed wing remained an imprint on his vision. 

Why was this affecting him so much? It wasn't the first time he'd seen horrors like this. But if Azriel wanted to be honest with himself, some days were harder than others simply because they were. Some days, the despair rattled his core and tossed him far out - because he was a person and emotions, feelings, these things were too abstract to be boxed in. 

Everything had a limit. Had Azriel ever truly reached his? 

Sometimes Azriel himself didn't understand how he kept it all in. How he didn't react or display any sign of having seen or heard the things he did. Sometimes he was repulsed by himself because of it. At least Cassian and his rare vomiting showed some of the humanity inside. 

Azriel gave away nothing. Was there even humanity in himself? Everyone but his family looked at him like he was an unhinged monster imprisoned by his Illyrian skin. Like he was moments from escape and they would be his first victims. 

Or - not just his family. Her. Elain. Did he consider he family? Perhaps it was too early, or even too inappropriate to do so. 

Either way, how could he stain the sudden image of her with himself, with the horrors he'd just seen, had always had the displeasure of seeing? She was lovely and warm and beautiful and he was dark and cold and hideous. 

Elain. Something inexplicable stirred in him at the thought of her. 

He tried to calm it, this heat, this single star in his midnight sky. But it remained. And it grew. 

And he was disgusted. Ashamed. He was not worthy of her. 

And it ached. Another unrequited love. 

That word snapped something in him. Mocked him. 

_Love_. 

A choking sound ripped from his throat and he welcomed it, let it mount into a scream, let it tear through his body and soul. Like that monster was finally breaking free. It was invigorating yet scorching. It burned him from the inside out but the cold of those shadows permeated his mind so heavily, he forgot the essence of corporeality and only his soul seemed to drift.

His ragged breathing sounded, throat parched. Where was he? Through the shadows, all around him, there seemed only darkness. Was he flying? No, the shadows sang their usual baritone thrum as opposed to the high harmony of the wind. 

Above, no stars glistened. His eyes strained but nothing peeked through. It wasn't often that his shadows became this thick; usually thin and wispy, they now shrouded his being, coalescing over, _in_ him. He became the cold, a shadow, darkness itself, floating through the ether, higher and higher like ashes on the wind. 

But even ashes settled down at some point. 

Unless his soul truly were ascending, unless this truly were death. It almost seemed too easy. All the battles, those two great wars, the poison that shot through his veins and stole his breath as per Hybern's whim. Poison that sometimes woke him up in cold sweats, a phantom memory of its iciness picking through his body as though he were being cut up by the sharpest blade ... 

Sometimes it even felt like his own blade. 

No, this couldn't be death. A mere scream, the image of lives lost, a bloody fight - he hated to admit that these were commonplace among his memories, his life. But in doing so, he knew death was too easy an aftermath for what had happened tonight. 

Death, an ascent. But he was sure when his time came, his stained soul would descend like the demon he was. 

So he grounded, drifting down weightlessly until the solidity of rock steadied him. He would not go to that darkest of places yet. But he was still exhausted. So damn tired of everything. He feared that if he dropped into a slumber right now, he'd not get up for a lifetime. As it was, his legs almost gave out, but he forced some remaining strength back into them. All he had to do was get home now. 

He stepped out of his shadows; Devlon's camp was quiet around him. A fire to his far right sputtered in the harsh winds and Azriel swept himself back into his shadows. 

This time he travelled faster, composing himself, locking his muscles and bones up, clenching his jaw. He let that familiar cool comfort drain his rage, cleaning it through his veins before it settled in the frozen lake of his heart where the rest of his darkness lay, inescapable through the impenetrable foot of icy wrath and sorrow. He savoured his shadows, a confidant in their own right, thanked them for their understanding and the escape he found within them. 

But they were growing warmer now. Azriel squinted through them as they shifted him across land and water - the scape of Velaris and its brilliant lights greeted him. Closer to home now, he could breathe with a looser chest but this was still unusual; his shadows shouldn't be warmer, they should be cool and refreshing, like the autumn night breeze beyond. 

His wings rustled, body reacting to his shadows' autonomy before his thawing mind caught up. 'Where are you taking me?' he murmured. 

Mist swirled about him and the shadows deposited him at the far edge of the dimly lit back garden at his High Lord and Lady's riverfront estate. Why would they bring him here? Rhysand and Feyre were at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were together in Illyria and Mor was at the Winter Court. As far as he knew, Amren was at her own apartment so the only person left was - 

'Azriel!' came Elain's voice. It was distant in a way it shouldn't be. 

Azriel leaned against a tree, pretending to fiddle with the Siphon atop his left hand. Breathing was difficult but he swallowed and exhaled in a shudder. 

He needed to fully compose himself before anyone saw him like this. If only his damn shadows hadn't taken control for those last few moments, he'd be in his own home and lying in that swirling darkness in peace. Though, he supposed, it was his own fatigue that had yielded that control. 

'Azriel!' Elain cried, stopping in front of him. Her face was caught between a frown and a wince and her arm was raised slightly. 'You don't look okay.' 

As always, he was momentarily stunned by how unafraid this small female was of him. Here he was in his full armour, every bit the monstrous warrior that sent his people scurrying into their homes and locking their doors, and yet Elain stood strong before him. Like she saw not a killing machine but a person. 

She never even commented on how his shadows made to disappear around her. Perhaps she hadn't noticed. 

He swallowed before he let out what he thought was a light laugh. 'I'm fine, don't worry.' But he could hear the hoarseness of his voice, now facing the consequences of that scathing scream. And his limbs felt even heavier than before, like someone had injected liquid lead into them. 

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she whispered, lowering both her gaze and arm. 

He paused, trying to catch her gaze. The constant light in her eyes whenever she looked at him was a balm to his soul. He could use some of that right now. 

He reached out an arm, so impossibly leaden right now - if he could just get to sit down - 

'Can I wash your hair, please?' 

He started. 'You want to wash my hair?' 

Elain's eyes flicked back up to skirt over his, up to his hair, where they stayed pinned. 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.' 

Shit. He hadn't even thought of his appearance after that bloody fight earlier. How that had slipped his mind? He ran a hand through his hair, and surely enough, crumbs of dirt rained down. 

Although, he really hadn't expected to turn up here of all places. In the privacy of his own home, he wouldn't have cared if he were missing a whole damn limb, if only it meant he could sleep like the dead. 

Not to mention that sleeping with a little mud was the least an Illyrian warrior's problems. But Elain's care was something of a punch to his gut. When was the last time someone had truly tended to him for reasons that weren't battle or holiday related? 

'You've managed to get some on your face, too,' she said, brow furrowed as she stared at his cheek. 

Her eyes were so deep and focused, he wished they would just meet his once. But of course, that level of scrutiny he'd come to learn from Elain meant shyness. Just shyness. She was so endearing, he could've laughed with such fondness if he weren't so damn tired. He wished this whole damn night would be over already. 

His leg faltered slightly and he stumbled forward. 

'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.' 

He raised his brows at her, but she simply took his arm and began leading him towards the house. She looked so small before him but didn't slow despite dragging his bulk behind her. 

Halfway across the garden, he pulled her to him with his free arm, his shadows saving the both of them the energy of walking through that mansion of a home. 

'My bathroom,' she murmured. Elain didn't balk through the five seconds of that darkness, didn't even look surprised. She showed no sign of hearing the spike in his pulse either. Thank the Mother. 

He set them in her bathroom, and she didn't look at him once as she flitted around the chamber, pulling a chair from her bedroom to the sink and grabbing a towel, soap and a jug from the cupboard. Standing there, his breathing began to smooth out. 

The window was open, a chill breeze sweeping in. The faelights were dim and their placid light sent a dusky illumination over Elain's features. Some bottles of oils and herbs sat on the edge of the bathtub. Azriel had heard of people using oils for bathing, but herbs? Perhaps they were like flower petals, used for their scent. 

Towel in hand, Elain waited at the sink, placing the soap and jug down. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this.' 

Azriel nodded, tapping his Siphon. Within seconds, that second skin of cold scales and gleaming wrath was safely stored away. Just his plain black trousers and tunic were left. 

Elain's eyes caught every moment of the transformation. 'It's beautiful, all of it.' 

He didn't even know if she was speaking of his armour or the basic clothes underneath or what, but his face warmed slightly, wings rustling. 

'Please sit,' she said, gesturing to the chair. As he did, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders, fingers hovering above his forehead for a few seconds. 

Those seconds felt perennial. He almost shuddered as her fingers made contact with his skin. Her hands were so gentle as they pushed his head back, and he shifted in the seat. He lowered his wings, and she stepped into the space he provided. She was still as he got comfortable, only turning the tap once he was settled. There was a slight crease between her brows, and he clenched his fists to keep from smoothing it out. 

Sounding so much like his own mother that his throat tightened, she whispered, 'You can close your eyes.' 

So he did. 

__


	2. Chapter 2

__

It had been a pretty uneventful day as Elain worked through her new plant textbook. Feyre and Rhysand had decided to spend the weekend away at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were away doing things she wished not to think of, while Mor was at the Winter Court.  
  
Amren had only been round in the mornings, probably to check Elain was still alive. She'd glance round the living room, examine some of those fine crystal glasses in the display cabinet and then leave. There was no difference today, though Elain always felt Amren's scrutiny upon her even when that muted silver gaze was directed elsewhere; perusing Rhys' wine collection had become a tired ruse.  
  
So besides preparing and taking her meals with Nuala and Cerridwen, Elain had spent her afternoon with her book, making notes and copying drawings. The twins had gone off on some errands, so she'd wandered into the garden at some point to tend to her many plants, telling them how lovely they each were. The crocuses looked particularly stunning this autumn day, their pale violet colour breathing life into the shades beneath some of the trees.   
  
With her book, she'd identified new weeds, digging into the soil to rip some pesky ones out. Sometimes she didn't want the help of a tool; sometimes she needed to feel those roots on her bare skin.  
  
Harvesting the carrots and beetroot was also on the agenda today, along with seeding for some spectacular displays next year. She'd been collecting the seeds from some of her summer blooms, like those soft clouds of baby's breath, saving them to replant. These she sowed directly into ground she'd prepared days before, her fingers digging into the crumbly clumps of earth.  
  
Autumn onions she'd plant tomorrow, perhaps. Feyre always remarked on how their strong taste complimented meats well, so Elain wanted to harvest some fresh for her sister for once. It'd take a few months of waiting, but there was little else better than picking out and eating food one had grown with their bare hands and the essential ingredients of love and care.  
  
Setting her book on the patio table, Elain surveyed the garden. It was a good day's work. Plants watered and sown, weeds uprooted, and hands sweaty and soiled, Elain was proud of what she'd achieved today. There were no distractions, nothing to take her from the one thing she always found satisfaction in.  
  
After a long shower, she found herself in the garden with a cup of tea and a blanket. The sunset washed the sky in a blaze of red and orange glory before it yielded to the cool tones of twilight and night. Elain sat in silence, hands wrapped around her mug. How long would it be until someone's arms were wrapped around her, until she felt the warmth her sisters finally had?

Silly, these thoughts. Immortality stretched far ahead, there would be time to develop that companionship. Months and years were but a heartbeat in the life of a High Fae. She wouldn't even notice the years pass.   
  
Or so everybody else kept saying.  
  
With her tea finished, she perused the book of recipes she'd borrowed from Nuala. Some recipes jumped out, ingredients for which she'd been growing for a few months now. Pumpkin pie sounded especially delightful, the gourd having almost darkened and hardened to ripe quality just a couple days ago. They should be ready for harvest tomorrow.  
  
A chill wind sent Elain inside to prepare and have her dinner in pleasant silence. Even her mind was quiet tonight. After washing her dishes, she stood by a bay window, fingers idly tapping the windowsill. 

Faelights bobbed like tiny lamps, dotted through the garden. The full moon was now high in the sky, its ghostly glow illuminating the datura flowers she'd seeded half a year ago. She pulled on her blanket and went out again for a better look at those gorgeous blooms, the petals opening only at night.   
  
Elain couldn't be happier she'd found seeds of a triple-flowered variety. They'd grown to produce large trumpets, three layers of petals ruffled against each other. Somehow she thought of her sisters as she crouched and stared at the flowers, each layer so similar, yet fighting for space and breath as it unfurled before another. It was only when they were all fully open that they could sigh along the night breeze as one, an ethereal song of togetherness, tinged with notes of poignancy, only heard by those with the will to look deeper.  
  
The white petals were stained with velvet violet, a true vision in her garden. While the others had given her passing compliments on the flowers, Azriel had seemed stunned the first time he saw them, citing them his favourite of all the plants Elain had grown so far. Something about their shape and contrasting colours, he'd mentioned.   
  
She smiled fondly at the memory, where his eyes sparkled as he reached for one of the soft petals.  
  
Her hand lashed out to grab his wrist. 'Don't touch them; the leaves and stems are highly poisonous.'  
  
His brows rose. 'You wouldn't think that at first sight. But they're beautiful, Elain. Truly magnificent,' he said, his smooth voice so low, a voice that was night given sound. And how befitting, as even those datura flowers seemed enraptured by his presence, one shy petal finally unfurling towards him.   
  
She beamed at him. 'They like you. Flowers like it when you talk to and compliment them - but these ones haven't given me the same reaction as they have to you. I think they really like you, Azriel.'  
  
His answering smile was heartbreakingly tender.   
  
A few more seconds passed before she realised she still held his wrist. She silently let go. 

It was a shame she'd have to dig out the datura shrub and move it inside for the winter; it did look magnificent in the moonlight.   
  
The sky shifted past its midnight velvet, and still Elain crouched, admiring the flowers. She shivered in the night's chill. The stars above twinkled and glistened, cold and distant as ever, yet stunning - infinitely more striking than they'd ever been when she was human. A thousand different colours sparkled in that vast expanse, the moon a phosphorescent queen in the centre of her court. 

The Night Court truly lived up to its name in the wee hours of the day. Its opulence never failed to mesmerise her; the enhanced Fae eyesight was at least one thing she was grateful for from this body.  
  
Her eyelids became heavy and she yawned. Why was she still out here? It was late into the night; she should in bed by now. But the night was so beautiful and it was so quiet and she wanted to appreciate it all just once. Just once without the expectations of others, without having to wear that miserable smile all the time.   
  
Of course, it didn't look miserable, which is probably why almost everybody never bothered to look deeper into Elain. She should be used to it by now, but it still felt - wrong. That most overlooked her so long as she wore a smile. That most didn't think her capable of feeling the utter bitterness and loneliness she had once seen so plain on her sisters' faces.   
  
And in acknowledgement of her sisters' hardships, Elain didn't fault them for not looking, for not seeing her. To see past the thick blanket of darkness in one's own mind was a trial in itself. But it had been years since the war now. And still they didn't notice.  
  
They didn't notice that Elain was being shredded from the inside out.   
  
It was almost laughable. But not funny enough.  
  
No, it was not funny that people still treated Elain like a child, that people wanted to keep Elain in some weird impasse of a stage between child and adult. She'd thought finally carrying out her duty and giving her hand in marriage would show everyone that she was growing up: Elain Archeron, middle born but first married. Of course it was still on her own terms, to a man whom she'd loved. A man who'd seen her through the rubble of her family's lives. But she'd overall hoped doing what was expected of her would be enough.  
  
Clearly not. She didn't even know who she was any more. Did she ever? Everything she'd once yearned for, gone. That fragile human life would soon be just a speck on the horizon of her past. 

  
She sighed. Rebuilding herself was going to take a long time.  
  
But what would she have to do for people to see her, to listen to her? Throw a rage? Fall into a drunken stupor and break a few dozen bottles?   
  
She definitely could, but those were not her. She was Elain Archeron. And so she would wait. Patience wasn't a bad thing at all; she saw it on the shadowsinger's face all the time, that tranquility and calmness she so wished to feel inside.  
  
Azriel. Her heart softened as he entered her mind again, and she dug her fingers into the soil, if only to occupy her fidgety hands. As sure as the chaos of her visions these days, there was a mess of butterflies related to him she wasn't willing to show. Or understand.   
  
Elain and the spymaster? Now that was laughable. Truly laughable. He was wise and patient, while she - well, everyone already thought her a child, and though he listened like no other around her, surely even he couldn't glimpse the adult she so desperately wanted everyone to see.   
  
No, it was foolish to entertain the idea of a relationship with him. No matter how much he saw.  
  
No matter that he was the first to see her since Graysen.  
  
Elain exhaled. She stifled another yawn, smoothing out the soil, then brushed her hands clean. She wrapped the blanket closer around herself and stood. Twinkling stars and velvety darkness and -  
  
There, a knot of shadows materialising at the far edge of the garden, collecting and swirling into a larger mass before Azriel himself stepped out and sagged against a tree. His shadows whirled and obscured him, a dark fire with him burning at the core.   
  
Elain's voice left her throat before she even thought to call him and she ran over to his figure slumped in the dimness.   
  
She couldn't help but say his name again as she neared. 'Azriel!'  
  
Those beautiful hands fiddled with a Siphon, but he looked even worse up close. Fatigue dragged at his body, a second weight to all the muscle and armour he already had to carry. Sweat and dirt clung to him, his hair. At least the shadows were parting, swallowing each other and misting away as they often did around her. Perhaps she should ask someday why they did that. But not today, not when his breathing was so laboured.   
  
She raised a hand - to do what, she had no idea. She couldn't just touch him right now. 'You don't look okay.'   
  
Something else limned his features as he huffed a light laugh and said, 'I'm fine, don't worry.' His voice was raw, so starkly different to its usual icy smoothness. It was common for him to guard his emotions, but in his state, this kind of thinking was just unhealthy. What would it take for him to be honest with her?   
  
'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she said, lowering her hand. She studied the ground, embarrassed that she'd come up to him. What could she even offer in her pathetic childlike state when he was so clearly affected by his mission right now?  
  
His hand rose. Her heart faltered, she had to do something, and she blurted, 'Can I wash your hair, please?'   
  
His eyes widened, his entire composure crumbling. It wasn't often that the shadowsinger looked startled, but Elain was far too shy to show that she quite liked the effect her question had on him.  
  
'You want to wash my hair?'   
  
His face was so exquisite, it hurt to look at it. His eyes would be even worse; it wouldn't be the first time she was rendered speechless by their kind gaze. A myriad of colours swirled in their glistening depths - gorgeous greens and brilliant browns, all so natural and rich, if only she could look at them long enough to find their matches in the garden around her. Though, his eyes were an entire spectrum of colour in their own right. How would she ever pick out each and every shade?  
  
And if she somehow did have the courage to meet his eyes now, what would she see of herself in their reflection?  
  
A lovesick puppy? A doe-eyed, fearful fawn?  
  
No, she didn't want to know.   
  
So she swallowed and focused on his hair. Perhaps this Fae eyesight was a curse, for even his hair was shockingly fascinating. Only flat black from a distance, the faelights bobbing about the trees highlighted layer upon layer of silky raven locks up close. His hair was so dark it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Mud stained one side of his head, and it was an effort to keep her hands from brushing it away, so she said, 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, clumps of dirt falling out. 

'You've managed to get some on your face, too.' There were light specks of mud and blood across his face, a more noticeable patch along his cheekbone, thrown into sharper relief by the faelights and his own weariness. Was that a cut beneath the patch? And another on his temple?   
  
She leashed her arms. 

What had happened? He wore the signs of a fight, but why would he come here when he knew Elain was the only one home?  
  
His eyes bored into her face, but she refused to meet them. He seemed to lean forward then, stumbling.  
  
Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous that he wouldn't even acknowledge he was in need. Azriel rarely stumbled. Any fatigue Elain had felt just a while ago was now burrowing down a little longer. Her voice was firm when she spoke. 'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'  
  
His brows rose, but if Elain stood there one more moment she wouldn't have the courage to do anything for him. For herself - she could take care of someone else. She could do for Azriel what she hadn't done for Feyre all those years as a human.  
  
And for Azriel, she could tend to the male who'd provided her with comfort and safety in this world of distress and danger.   
  
So she pulled him along, clenching her jaw and refusing to look back. Her heart hammered in her chest but she continued, hand wrapped round his armoured arm. Her hand slid down to his wrist but just as she was about to replace her grip, he grabbed her other hand and pulled her into him.  
  
The shadows instantly began to ensconce them, dozens of those cool tendrils twining like vines. The estate loomed huge before them, and Elain gripped Azriel's hand tighter.   
  
'My bathroom,' she said. Beneath the low whisper of those shadows, her blood thrummed, her heart so painfully obvious against her ribs now. It would be a wonder if the spymaster wasn't aware of it. Though she did hear another flutter above, right by her ear. But as expected, the shadows made quick work of their journey and she didn't have the chance to dwell on it further.   
  
Now out of the comfort of Azriel's hold, Elain set down her blanket and made to grab a chair from her bedroom. His dark presence was so overwhelming that she exhaled lightly as she entered the room and took the chair. She dragged it to the sink, avoiding his gaze, and pulled a towel, soap and a large jug from the cupboard by the door.   
  
As she settled the soap and jug on the sink, she dared a glance at him. He was still clad in full armour, those black scales gleaming like obsidian over his skin, his Siphons glistening jewels across his body. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this,' she said.  
  
He inclined his head and tapped a Siphon, those scales lashing back into each other with cruel elegance. They were a mirror of their master: cold, controlled and unyielding, forged from scintillating darkness. He was a night sky riddled with stars; light existed if only one bothered to look for it.  
  
Azriel's great wings righted themselves as he stood straight, now looking smaller in just his black tunic and trousers. Something about him seemed vulnerable without the armour, so Elain breathed, 'It's beautiful, all of it.' The hulking armour, the classic simplicity of the tunic and trousers, and the male who wore them all.  
  
He was just so wonderful, Azriel. An enigma that could see her own. Her heart clenched.  
  
Azriel rustled his wings, colour blossoming on his cheeks.  
  
Elain blinked and pulled the chair out a little. 'Please sit.' As he sunk down, she rested the towel on his shoulders, hovering her fingers above his forehead. Her body tensed and her fingers remained suspended. It was like a spark of tension flickered in the space between her skin and his, teasing her, tempting her, taunting her.   
  
After all, she'd offered to wash his hair, an act that would certainly require touching. But why was she so hesitant? She'd touched him before - kissed his cheek, even. Although that had been in the heat of adrenaline, a mark of her gratitude where a simple thank you wouldn't suffice, not for risking his own life for hers.  
  
This was - what was this?   
  
She finally lowered her fingers through that tense spark, pushing his head back against the sink. It was exhilarating, this contact, but he lowered his wings, shifting on the seat. Elain moved into the space he gave, turning on the tap as he went still. Just as her body was taut, taut as the skin of a drum.   
  
She checked the water. Warm. It was time to start.  
  
Azriel was looking up at her. Something like yearning swirled in his eyes.  
  
He looked so tired. It made her heart ache.  
  
'You can close your eyes,' Elain whispered. And he did.  
  
__


	3. Chapter 3

__

Warmth soaked into Azriel as Elain poured a jug of water over his head. His throat loosened as that warmth fluttered through his body, pulsing against those frozen veins and humming under his skin. Goosebumps tickled his arms. 

But it was nothing compared to the sheer bliss that rippled through him as her fingers delved into his hair. It was an effort to restrain the groan reaching through his throat, so he let out a light sigh instead. He didn't think it prudent for Elain to hear him moan under her care. She was so kind to do this for him; he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable. 

Two more jugs of water followed. 

'Is that nice?' she asked, as though it could be anything but. It felt almost exactly like his mother's hands when she'd wash his hair in those so few minutes he was allowed to see her every week. Gentle and tender and pleasant. 

He could fall asleep here if he weren't so aware of Elain in the room with him. Touching him. As it were, that warmth pulled deeper into him, loosing his muscles, thawing his bones. 

'It is.' His voice sounded thick and he cleared his throat. 

She was silent as her fingers worked, and after a minute or two, she rubbed soap into her hands. The scent of lavender filled the air. She massaged his scalp and lathered his locks, her touch so comforting it almost broke him. 

Cauldron boil him, she was so much like his mother, right down to the scent of the soap she used. Her touch had just the right amounts of care and force as it worked across his scalp, relieving a knot of tension at the base of his skull. 

His blood was now a soft thrum under his skin, that warmth guiding him further from consciousness, like he was wrapped in his shadows, safe from expectations, safe from judgement, safe from the world. 

'Azriel?' came Elain's voice. 

He jolted, eyes snapping open. 'Huh?' 

She let out a light laugh. 'Your shadows are sort of hiding your head.' 

Indeed, his shadows swirled around him, thickest by his eyes. 'Sorry,' he murmured, leashing them back in. 

'Don't be. You can close your eyes again.' 

As he did, he noted how soft her voice had been, the sombre touch to her words. She hadn't stepped away from his shadows. They must've been cold on her skin, but she'd made no comment. What did she think of them? It irked him not to know. 

She continued her work, occasionally adding more water to his hair. Her fingertips rubbed his scalp, the cool night air touched with that lovely lavender. 

Behind his closed eyelids, his mother smiled at him. Her smile was so sweet, so radiant and inviting, so homely that he wished he could freeze time to extend that one hour into eternity. 

'You're so beautiful, my boy,' she whispered, her voice tender. Her arms were extended and he ran into them, savouring the comfort he found there. It was astonishing that he could experience this warmth after those long miserable days in that cell. 

Those days. They often blended into each other, dark and dank as the cell itself. When he'd be taken to see his mother, light through the windows was painful as it pierced him. It was always too bright, the sun. Always too penetrating, like those rays sought him out to display all his wrongness - especially his shadows, a frenzied, wild and unchained beast before he learnt to control them. Terrible, dark magic not born of the Mother, his father constantly claimed. 

And oh, how dark those shadows looked in the sunlight. 

But then he'd be reunited with his mother, and her light was mellow. Soft like a caress, serene as sunset, always calming his hurricane of shadows. She bathed him in her light, let it wash over him with her smiles and kind words, ever flowing in their hours together. 

He regretted most the little time he had with his mother growing up. Resented it, for it was neither of their faults. It was always too fast, that weekly hour, and when he was finally thrown in the Illyrian camps without a clue what his culture truly meant, it was eternities before he could see his mother again and bask in her soothing glow. Those times were long and cold, even with his found brothers by his side. 

His mother's image faded into darkness as something soft touched his eye. 'Mother?' he rasped. 

'No, it's Elain,' whispered Elain. 

Elain? As he opened his eyes and blinked, his murky vision cleared and he found her staring down at him in her dim bathroom, brow creased. His shadows were everywhere but one of her hands held a fresh towel; the other hovered by his eye. He dispersed his shadows into clear air. What did she make of his address? 

And was that salt he scented? 

Cauldron, did he - did he _cry_? 

'I asked you to lift your head but you'd fallen asleep,' Elain said. 'I didn't want to wake you, but we should dry your hair before you really go to sleep. Especially if you'll be going outside again. Although I would ask you to consider taking a guest room.' She frowned. 

When had he fallen asleep? And how could it have been so sound a sleep that he didn't feel Elain finish? There must be magic in those fingertips of hers to relax him so deeply. 

'Right,' he said, slowly sitting up. His neck was stiff and Elain reached behind to hold it as he pulled it forward. Water dripped down his temples, off his head, some drops pattering on the floor. 

Elain patted his head with the towel, wiping his neck and forehead. She brushed wet strands away from his face, her focus so intent on his hair. He dropped his heavy head, and she gave the back a more thorough dry. A few minutes of ruffling his hair around, during which she pulled the towel from his neck, and she seemed satisfied. She raked her fingers through his hair, flattening the spiky mess he was sure sat atop his head, and a ripple of comfort descended through him. She discarded the towels on her bathtub. 

As a thin breeze breathed over his wet head, he noticed the plants resting on small stools around the tub. How did he not see them earlier? Exhaustion, he supposed. 

Blooms and vines overflowed their small pots, cascading down in bursts of bright colour. Three hanging baskets of what he smelled as rosemary lined the wall, wild green clusters of stems trailing over the edges and hiding the ivory stone behind. He wanted to touch all those soft petals and velveteen leaves, feel the depth of Elain's care through their touch. 

He made to stand, but she held his shoulder. 'Wait,' she said. 'I want to clean your face, too.' 

He'd forgotten about all the dirt she'd found there earlier. 

She wet a cloth and knelt by his side, touching the cloth to his cheek, right above the gash that rogue Illyrian had opened earlier. 

He winced, the skin tight where the mud had dried. 

'Sorry,' she said softly, pausing. 

With a smile, he gave her the same response she'd given him earlier: 'Don't be.' 

Elain breathed a laugh and dipped her head. 'That cut does look very bad, though. I think I'll have to clean it with alcohol too.' 

'Let's crack open that wine, then.' 

She laughed again and blushed. 'Not tonight, Azriel.' And she patted his cheek again, rubbing off the dirt and blood. 

The sound of his name on her tongue heated his blood. It wasn't that pleasant warmth as she'd washed his hair; no, this was something more charged. Something that settled his weariness into a quiet hum and left him a little more awake. 

He drew in his shadows, sending them through his veins. The cool they delivered wasn't nearly enough to pacify his rising heartbeat. Not with Elain so close. If he moved forward just a few inches, there'd be no space left between them. 

He didn't usually think of Elain like this. Think of the feel of her mouth on his. 

He blamed the exhaustion, even as it hunkered down. 

And - she was so lovely. And he was _Azriel_. He should be disgusted that he was here, letting her tend to him, making jokes with her, imagining them kissing. That was enough to tame his heart a while. 

But Cauldron boil him. How would he sleep with his mind teeming with so much conflict. The dead girl and her family, his mother. Elain too now, whether he liked it or not. He'd hoped his physical fatigue would win over his crowded mind. That he'd get some proper rest and deal with all the rogue Illyrian troubles and whatever else later. 

Apparently not this night. 

As Elain stood and washed the cloth, he let out a deep breath through his nose, then shifted on the seat, hoping to put more space between them. Distance - even an inch - might be helpful. 

Not that he'd make the first move. 

He never did. 

Elain knelt down again, wiping the cloth across his jawline, nose, cheek. He faced her to give her more access, but she kept her gaze intent everywhere except his eyes, as if cleaning his skin required her utmost focus. 

_Look at me_ , he almost said. With her so close to him, it was maddening not to share even an accidental glance. 

She abruptly went to close the window, a heavier silence settling over the room, then moved to the cupboard by the door, pulling out a small bottle of alcohol. Her petite frame looked so delicate, yet a tautness relaxed from her body in the way her shoulders loosened. It was probably just her defence against the cold, though the temperature was nothing but mild to him. 

She poured a few drops onto a clean cloth and took her place beside him. She cringed. 'This'll hurt.' 

He smiled faintly. 'It's all right.' He doubted he'd even feel it. 

She delicately touched the cloth to his cheekbone and he clenched his jaw, the alcohol harbouring more ire than he expected. Mother above, that was a deep cut. 

Elain creased her brow and patted along the gash. 'Are you all right, Azriel?' Her voice was subdued. 

The truth would be more painful to put out. 'I'm all right. Are you all right, Elain?' 

'I'm fine.' 

He doubted her just as she probably doubted him. The dark circles around her eyes were faint but still there. But theirs was a friendship of mutual respect and boundaries. If she didn't impose on his, he certainly wouldn't do so on hers. 

But oh, how he wished she would feel comfortable enough to truly confide in him right now. It wouldn't be the first time she'd done so; he just needed to be patient. But he'd do anything to relieve the tension humming behind her eyes. From her manic visions, pain he knew lurked under her skin and in her mind, general exhaustion from keeping up appearances - he would swallow them all in his shadows and dispel them on the highest wind if it meant she would be all right. 

They were silent as she finished up. When she washed the cloth, he turned in the seat and spoke. 'You can talk to me, Elain, whenever you need.' 

She beamed at him and her eyes finally met his. 'I know.' 

He stood, holding her gaze. Something was very off about that smile. 

Her hands fiddled to turn off the tap, the cloth falling from limp fingers. Her body faced his, and her smile fell, brows rising slightly. She cleared her throat. 'We should go downstairs to the fireplace. It'll be warmer there.' 

In an instant, they were wrapped in shadows, her wrist in his hand, and the great living room came into view. A thin sheet of moonlight through the windows was the only illumination. Just as their feet found the floor, Elain bent to put three logs into the fireplace, lighting them after a few tries. 'Those shadows are quite convenient at times, aren't they?' she said. 

He huffed a laugh and rested a forearm against the mantelpiece, crossing a leg over the other. 'They can be.' 

The blaze flared out and she stepped back, looking up at him through that shadowy amber glow. 'Just a few minutes now and we'll be warm.' 

Her eyes didn't leave his. And how stunning they were, soft and subtle in the dim light. The brown looked richer among the warm tones of the fire, something like dark chocolate - or rosewood, perhaps, with a mahogany undertone. 

'I think you'll need a bandage for that wound,' she said. 

'I'll be fine without it.' 

'It's quite deep.' 

'Not a match for my Illyrian healing.' He smirked, trying to relieve whatever pressure thrummed in the air between them. He hadn't even noticed it come; one moment the air was clear, the next it was pulsing a steady beat. What the hell was this? Did she feel it too? He wished his shadows would just devour the tension, if only to reduce his own shame. 

Her eyes flicked to his wings behind him, and they rustled, spreading a bit. He straightened. The heat in his blood turned to a simmer and he knew in his bones it had nothing to do with the fire. Why couldn't he control this? She met his eyes again. 

He'd wanted to see her eyes on his, but now they were just too focused, and if she didn't stop looking at him like this, like she could see the blood beginning to bubble beneath his skin - 

She cleared her throat and scanned his face, likely checking she hadn't missed anything. 'Oh,' she said, raising a finger to his temple. 

Her touch on his skin sent his blood boiling. His heart was pounding a loud rhythm and because his mind was so muddled from the fight and the blood and his childhood somehow entering his conscience, and the lines between the past and the present were so blurred tonight, and this _heat_ was just searing - he grasped Elain's wrist where it hovered by his face. 

Her breath hitched, eyes snapping to his. 

This was wrong, this was so utterly wrong, but he couldn't let go. What had he done? 

She stared at him, through him. 'I can hear your heartbeat,' she choked out. 

Through the crackling fire, she could hear him. 

He was silent. His body tensed. 

'And it's a beautiful sound.' 

His pulse spiked like his heart sang out to her, called her name. Did she - _could_ she - feel the same as he? 

'You're beautiful, too,' he breathed. 

The air was stifling. Cursed flames. Every thought in his head narrowed to the girl before him. Her eyes glistened. 

He wasn't sure he was breathing. 

Was she? 

Her eyes swept his face. They stopped at his lips. 

'Are you going to kiss me?' she whispered. 

So focused on her plump, rosy lips, he almost didn't hear the hiss of a log as it tumbled further into the fire. His throat bobbed. Maybe - just maybe this could be okay. Maybe if she wanted it as much as he did, he could put aside his own self-loathing for a moment. Elain was different, an essence of light in and of herself. Her core radiated brilliance; it'd take more than just a few of his shadows to snuff out her glow. 

And damn the consequences anyway. The Azriel of later would deal with them. If he didn't burn alive here first. 

He swallowed. 'Only if you want me to.' 

'Yes.' 

His chest tightened at the resolve in her tone. Yearning and compunction warred within. He craved her touch, yet disgrace corded his heart. How could he even think this could be fine? She would be poisoned, made impure by his mouth. 

'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'and I want you to know I trust you, Azriel. You will do me no harm. You couldn't.' 

She trusted him. He wasn't sure why, but she trusted him. What could he give in return? His scars? He lowered his gaze, her wrist still soft in his hand. He felt his arm move like a dead weight, but it was only the feel of her thumb on his brow, smoothing out the crease there, that mollified him, that unravelled and burned away that cord of disgrace. He released a long breath. 

'I trust you, Azriel. So kiss me.' 

And it was the clarity in her voice, the pure stability that had him leaning down - slowly, so slowly. Doubt flickered along his bones but he couldn't savour the anticipation enough. This moment would change their path for ever. 

His heart thundered with every inch he yielded, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek, fingers setting so perfectly over the delicate plane of her face. Her breath stilled when he was but a whisper from her mouth, and he paused. 

Her floral scent fanned him, melding with the smokiness of the flames. Was that datura he smelled? Those exquisite flowers he loved so much, with their large petals curling off in tapered tips so like his own shadows. The first memory he had of them, that conversation where Elain had grabbed his wrist. 

He was still holding hers now. 

Her doe eyes were so steady on his. 'Kiss me,' she murmured. 

He closed his eyes and removed the space between them. 

So much for never making the first move. 

___


	4. Chapter 4

__

The water falling from the jug to Azriel’s head was the only sound in the bathroom. His hair absorbed the water, darkening to a midnight gleam. A thin breeze entered the room, and now without a blanket, Elain's exposed arms prickled with goosebumps. 

Elain plunged a hand into his hair, breaking the mud between her fingertips. A quiet breath passed through his mouth and the corners of her lips rose. 

She rubbed his scalp, coaxing as much dirt to the surface as she could before guiding another jug of water through his hair. Some of the mud drained away, some clods of sediment sticking to the basin. She poured over a final jug and stained water trickled into the drain. The warmth of the water tickled through her skin, replacing the cold from outside. 

‘Is that nice?’ she asked, brushing the water through his hair with both hands. 

His body seemed to relax, one foot sliding forward a little. ‘It is,’ he said thickly. He cleared his throat. 

Her fingers continued to gently work at his head, and when sure his hair was completely wet, she ran the bar of soap under the tap. Soft lavender entered her nose and she inhaled deeply. That calm scent loosened her own muscles; this could be as much a session of serenity for her as she hoped it'd be for Azriel. 

So long as she held taut the chain on her heart. 

Soap foaming, she immersed her hands back into his thick hair, forming a lather. The lavender smell intensified, a wave of tranquility sweeping over her. She blinked slowly, as though her mind were wading through water. 

Another sigh from him drew her attention back to his head. She needed to focus on this task; for Azriel, she could stay awake a little longer, especially since she’d already started. 

Her fingertips massaged his skull, pressing a little deeper at the base where knots had a tendency to form. Elain moved her own neck, a sharp stab sparking at the top of her spine. 

She hadn’t mentioned it to anybody yet – didn’t even know if she would – but her visions had been so feverish the past fortnight. Sleep felt like a luxury as she tossed and turned with psychedelic madness flashing behind her eyes. A turquoise expanse of sparkling ocean, birds shaped from sunset, glittering gowns in every shade, and a too-wide smile with pointed teeth were just a few of the recurring images attacking her every night. There were too many colours; everything was just too bright and manic in those visions. 

Bathing before bed wasn't helpful. She'd hoped the calming scents of the herbs she'd found would be enough to pacify her mind and lull her to sleep. So far, there was no positive result beyond a loosening of her muscles. At least some of those herbs relieved the intensity of the dark circles round her eyes. 

Mellow darkness, however, was a true reprieve, one which she found in her garden in those quiet evening hours, when the sky, having bled through its saturated sunset, was awash with deep muted blues. 

As if she’d summoned it, a similar darkness manifested around Azriel’s body, swirling thickest about his head like a black cloud. His shadows rose like vapour, tendrils reaching out and twining about him. 

Elain’s hands were hidden among those dark whorls, and they whispered on her skin in cool caresses. She leaned over his head and said, ‘Azriel?’ 

His eyes flicked open. ‘Huh?’ 

There was something boyish and confused in the way he blinked and she laughed lightly. ‘Your shadows are sort of hiding your head.’ 

He turned his head an inch or two. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and those shadows began sweeping over each other, wisps kissing her as Azriel pulled them in. 

Elain’s hands were stationary until those shadows were completely reeled in, a faint frown on Azriel’s face. Sorrow lurked there, perhaps that he couldn’t be cocooned in that safe space. 

Guilt coated the chain around her heart. 

‘Don’t be,’ she murmured. Did he hear the shame in her voice? She hoped not; he should be resting, not worrying about Elain’s feelings. ‘You can close your eyes again.’ 

He did, but not before she caught a shadow lingering behind his eyes. Were they a glimpse into the shadows he leashed within himself, or were they a reflection of something darker, more sinister, perhaps? 

That guilt began to cut into her heart now, icy claws digging. Cold squeezed her chest, a cold unrelated to the outside breeze breathing over her skin. How could she think Azriel was sinister? After the countless times he’d reached out to comfort her, be with her, listen to her – and the sincere light she saw in his eyes. Even the hope Rhysand had spoken of that day of the last battle in the war. The hope whose meaning he'd learnt from Azriel, learnt to experience from Azriel. 

No, it was absurd. Yes, Azriel was a warrior and yes, he’d killed people. Possibly worse, she didn’t know. But those shadows she knew with certainty weren’t formed from the darkness of nightmares and malevolence and all things wicked. 

They were a darkness of safety and security, of nights spent in a loved one’s arms. When a child sought their parent; when an adult sought their partner. They were the darkness found deep underground, where the earth was pure and things grew. Where life grew. 

And just like his shadows, he too was not crafted from unholiness. There was unrelenting virtue glowing in him, burning whatever taint touched his darkness. She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d found her at the Hybern camp, when he alone had armed her with his own dagger at that later battle – and then run straight into the thick of it without Truth-Teller. 

She didn’t know what she would’ve done if he hadn’t survived while she held his blade. 

So when his shadows leaked out again, wrapping him in twining vines and wisps, she said nothing. Simply continued to work in that lovely lavender soap, giving as much care as she could. He deserved it. 

She poured jug after jug of warm water over his head, wading her fingers through his locks to wash out the soap. Within a minute or two, the water was running clear. She yawned and dried her hands on a fresh towel. 

‘Az, you can lift your head now.’ 

The guilt relented a little, icy claws releasing. A cold still filled the space left behind. But before the warmth of his presence, his existence, could balm her heart as it often did, she froze. His shadows parted to reveal a tear slipping from his eye. Just a single tear but so abrupt it was jarring on the shadowsinger’s face. 

‘Azriel?’ 

He was unresponsive. His breathing was regular, body relaxed in a state of sleep. Except for that tear. What was he dreaming of? 

She raised her hand to his face but let it hover in the air. Would this wake him? Would he even be fine knowing Elain had seen him cry? 

She touched the tear anyway, placed a knuckle right beneath it. The tear slipped onto her hand and she wiped off the trace left on his face. 

Azriel stirred, voice raw as he said, ‘Mother?’ 

Mother – was she what, who he dreamt of? There was such a childlike insecurity in his tone that Elain’s heart squeezed. She moved her hand back a little when her own voice sounded wispy. ‘No, it’s Elain.’ 

His eyes opened, gaze darting around the room. There was a small crease in his brow as he blinked away whatever haze remained from his dreams. The shadows dissipated. 

Confusion limned his features in the few seconds it took him to fully awaken. Did he know he cried? That she’d wiped off his tear? No, that wouldn’t be okay. Elain had to distract him, if that were even possible for a spymaster. 

Sometimes his title overwhelmed her. Sometimes she found security in it; did he see things he didn’t want to on his travels? Did he have access to a wealth of information he didn’t initially understand, just as Elain didn’t comprehend her visions without further probing? 

‘I asked you to lift your head but you’d fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, but we should dry your hair before you really go to sleep. Especially if you’ll be going outside again. Although I would ask you to consider taking a guest room.’ 

That frown deepened for a second before he smoothed out his face. ‘Right.’ He sat straight, and Elain set a hand under his head as he stiffly pulled it up. He rotated his neck a bit, water dripping off his sodden hair, sliding down his face. 

She placed the towel over his head, patting it across his scalp. Some strands escaped to hang over his forehead, so she pulled them back, ruffling the towel through his hair. All the while, he watched her, but she busied herself with the water that glistened on his neck. Anything to avoid his eyes. 

Then he dropped his head – from tiredness or something else, she didn’t know – so she took the opportunity to dry the back more. Drying his hair took more effort than washing, he just had so much hair. The small towel quickly became damp so she continued with the one round his neck, and a short while later, deemed his hair dry enough. Still wet but not sodden, so she combed her fingers through it, smoothing out the tips that stuck out. She left both towels on her bathtub, touching a knuckle to one of the trailing plants sitting on a stool nearby. 

She heard the chair scrape across the floor, Azriel rising, so she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait. I want to clean your face, too.’ 

The idea of having to look at his face for however long it took to clean sent a thrill through her and she woke a little more. The chain on her heart slipped from her control a little and she leashed it back. Her chest tightened as she grabbed a cloth and ran it under the tap. She knelt next to him, honing in on that giant gash on his cheekbone. She touched the cloth to his face. 

He winced and her hand stilled. ‘Sorry.’ 

A small smile graced his face, and he said, ‘Don’t be.’ 

She recognised the words from earlier and breathed a laugh. ‘That cut does look very bad, though. I think I’ll have to clean it with alcohol too.’ 

‘Let’s crack open that wine then.’ 

Something sultry laced his voice, the chain in her chest slipping again. The metal warmed and Elain fiddled with her grip. She let out a shaky laugh. ‘Not tonight, Azriel.’ 

Goodness. A late night wine session with Azriel. There was heat in her cheeks and she didn’t know how to tone it down. It was even worse with his face so near hers. He’d see it all. Her face warmed further, and it was only the dirt and blood on his that reminded her he was in no position to be drinking the night away. Not with fatigue so clear on his features and in his posture. 

And not with _Elain_. That toed a line she didn't deserve to cross. 

So she gave focus only to his skin, wiping the cloth across his face. Once most of the mud and blood was off, she rinsed the cloth, then wiped him down again. He turned his head and as his eyes fixed squarely on her, the chain heated further. She tried to grip it elsewhere, but every link was as hot. It wasn’t uncomfortable – quite pleasant, actually – but she was sure it would be soon enough if she didn’t move now. The cool air sweeping into the bathroom did nothing to help. If he would just stop looking into her – 

Elain abruptly stood and on a whim went to close the window. Maybe he'd think she was cold, though she'd regret trapping the air when it was stifling here soon. 

She moved to the cupboard by the door, her back to him. She took a deep breath, taking her time to pull out a bottle of alcohol, in pouring a few drops of it onto a clean cloth. The distance between them was refreshing. The chain didn’t cool, not with Azriel still so close in the same room, but at least it didn’t warm any more. Elain took a moment to readjust her grasp and pull it again. 

She composed herself and knelt beside him. The alcohol’s scent permeated the air and her own nerves bristled. ‘This’ll hurt.’ 

His smile was slight. ‘It’s all right.’ 

She bit the inside of her cheek and touched the cloth to the wound. His jaw clamped like a vice and she lightened her touch, the cloth barely kissing his skin. 

This wasn’t the right way. She needed to clean that wound, regardless of what pain it’d inflict. It'd be temporary, the sting. So she pressed the cloth harder, dabbing it across his cheekbone. 

His features were stonelike at the contact. Did pain ever become easier to bear? Would the prick of a thorn be less painful in a decade than it was now? 

If Azriel’s face was anything to go by, she guessed no. Perhaps some pain couldn’t be learnt; perhaps the body never fully digested pain. 

Perhaps she'd never fully recover from the desolation in the Cauldron. 

‘Are you all right, Azriel?’ Her voice was so quiet, like she didn’t want to flare the hurt any further. 

‘I’m all right. Are you all right, Elain?’ 

‘I’m fine.’ 

He wasn’t all right and nor was she, but neither was willing to broach that right now. There was so much to him she didn’t yet know. What was it that shadowed his eyes so often? What darkness clouded his mind before he fell asleep? In due time, she’d learn, but that human impatience, the sense that there was never enough time, threatened to run her tongue. 

Time stretched out before her. She’d learn. He was her friend, she just needed to give him time to teach her the workings of his soul. And in return, she would bare hers too. 

Neither said a word as she pressed the alcohol into every wound, cleaning his cheekbone and temple, a scratch across his jaw. She stared at the graze there for a few seconds. She’d ask Madja for some calendula oil later; that would speed the healing process. 

She sighed as she washed the cloth. Something had loosened the chain, but it wasn’t a sudden unravelling. It’d just been gradual and she hadn’t noticed, one link falling back at a time. Her heart expanded. There was torment in Azriel’s posture, on his face, and it hurt. It hurt that Elain couldn’t do anything for him besides give basic medicines for his body. 

But he was more than just a physical form. He had a heart and a soul, both so tight with whatever misery lurked in his past, and she couldn’t do anything about that. For all the light she saw in the world, all the places of brightness, there was ten times as much darkness, ten times as many nooks and crannies where gloom and wretchedness dwelt. What good was the light if it didn’t burn away the shade over everyone’s souls? 

She spent more time washing the cloth than necessary. 

The chair creaked. ‘You can talk to me, Elain, whenever you need.’ 

The chain slipped again, Elain’s fingers grappling for those final links. It hurt so much that he was willing to give so much. Her smile was too bright as she turned and said, ‘I know.’ 

He stood. His gaze was so direct on her that she only held one chainlink now. Just one link remained in her hand, one link between her and the release of a beast she hadn't yet had the courage to face. 

The link heated. Her muscles loosened and her hands fumbled with the tap, the cloth falling from limp fingers. 

He would realise. He would know what she was thinking and feeling if she didn’t get a grip on herself, on that final chainlink. So she turned her body to face his and cleared her throat. ‘We should go downstairs to the fireplace. It’ll be warmer there.’ For his damp hair, of course. 

No matter that whatever cool air remained in the room did nothing to tame her heat. 

His hand was cold on her wrist, a shiver tracking her bones, and colder still were the shadows that swept them up and into the living room. Good, there was much more space here. Her feet hit the floor and she bent to place three logs in the hearth. 

Moonlight glinted on the steel she struck against the flint but the metal didn’t spark the way she’d seen it do when everybody else lit a fire. She tried again, Azriel silent beside her. This was pitiful. She swiped the steel a couple more times, and a spark finally appeared. 

It was too silent here. ‘Those shadows are quite convenient at times, aren’t they?’ she said. 

He breathed a laugh. ‘They can be.’ 

She let the spark catch on the cloth resting on the hearth and threw it onto the logs, a blaze finally blooming. She doubted anybody else took that long to start a fire. Heat bathed her legs. 

Elain didn’t know what to make of the lack of judgement she found on his face when she stood. Though, it was common with him, how honestly he looked at her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Save Nuala and Cerridwen, he was perhaps the only one who didn’t view her as a naive fool, a child. None of the others said it, but she saw it in their eyes, that patronising glimmer. 

He was leaning against the mantelpiece with a forearm, one leg crossed over the other, the portrait of casual elegance. It wasn't often she got to see him looking so relaxed. Then again, he was tired. 

Her eyes met his. ‘Just a few minutes now and we’ll be warm.’ 

His eyes were soft; he didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at her. Into her. 

The air warmed. That was a quick few minutes. 

Just the flames. Of course it was the flames. Anything else would be ridiculous. 

The wound on his cheekbone was an angry red in the dim light. ‘I think you’ll need a bandage for that wound.’ Some herbs would be prudent too. 

‘I’ll be fine without it,’ he said. 

She pleaded for interference from something, anything. ‘It’s quite deep.’ 

‘Not a match for my Illyrian healing.’ The smirk that followed sent a hot spark down her skin. The chain now burned and she lost her grip on it completely, that leash uncoiling and slipping down, down, down into the abyss of her core. Her heart swelled like a dragon inhaling a mighty breath. 

She needed a distraction from his achingly stunning face. The wings behind him were not a reprieve at all. Especially not after what she'd overheard about them. Certain people tended to forget she was in the room and had heightened hearing when they talked about the _sensitivities_ of the Illyrian wings. 

Her face heated and her heart throbbed against her chest. How improper these thoughts were. The air was stifling now. Perhaps they should've stayed in the bathroom. Even the weak chill of night air would be better than this. She wished she could have shadows to cool her down like Azriel did. Or to hide in. She'd seen him do that plenty of times. 

His wings rustled and he straightened, coming off the mantelpiece. His eyes were glazed, somehow even more stunning than they were outside earlier. The fire highlighted the grey brown storm swirling in his gaze while streaks of emerald glistened like the veins on leaves in the height of summer. 

It felt like the height of summer too in this heat. 

He frowned. She cleared her throat of the pocket of air lodged there. 

'Oh.' A bead of sweat glinted on his temple, right above the gash there. The sting that would ensue was an unnecessary pain, so she reached up to wipe it away. 

As her finger touched his skin, above the crackle of the flames, a loud thudding beat entered her ears. Azriel caught her wrist and a small gasp left her lips. 

His eyes smouldered, that thunderstorm churning in the dim light. His heartbeat. It was his heartbeat she heard. It ran and ran, crescendoeing like a drum before the climax of a song. 

Was the shadowsinger feeling the same as she? Did his heart yearn to touch hers too? 

It was unbearable, the alternative. Unbearable but probable. 

Her voice was thick, with longing, with desire, with anguish all entangled when she spoke, 'I can hear your heartbeat.' 

He said nothing. If he truly didn't reciprocate - 

She almost couldn't continue but pushed out, 'And it's a beautiful sound.' 

That song in his heartbeat finally climaxed, a thunder of sound pounding the air. 

'You're beautiful, too,' he breathed. 

Her own pulse throbbed, heartbeat echoing in her throat. Tears blurred her vision of him. She blinked them away; she wanted to truly see every inch of his wonderful face. 

His breathing lightened. 

As did hers. 

He was a mirror, Azriel. He saw her; he saw what she hid from everyone else, clear as day. It was his eyes that told. His words, too, in that smooth voice, free of condescension. 

And now no mouth had ever looked so inviting. 

And maybe this was okay. This fondness, this attachment she'd developed for him. It wasn't a sudden spark - childish and unquestioned. This had been building for a while now. Months. Maybe even since the first year she'd met him. And maybe it was improper and she was a lady, but perhaps it went beyond expectation. If her sisters could give themselves wholly to their love, then so could she. 

Love. It was exhilarating, liberating to open up that well inside her. To no longer have that chain leashing her heart. 

And because she knew he'd not make another move, she whispered, 'Are you going to kiss me?' 

The fire hissed as a log tumbled further into the hearth. Shadows smoked behind his eyes. 'Only if you want me to.' 

Without a doubt, she wanted this. There was a certainty, a clarity in her bones that sang high and free. It whistled through her marrow and glided into her blood, awakening her soul. She was not a child. She could want this. She could have this. 

'Yes.' 

A frown marred his face and her heart dropped. His eyes were now a hurricane, darkened like night descended over them. Torment was etched in the line of his brows, in the flicker of his jaw as it ground together. 

He was afraid. Of hurting her. Ruining her. She'd seen the way he always glimpsed his hands, glancing away with revulsion in his eyes. He thought he was a disgrace, a savage. 

But how could that be? How could this male, this male of honour, loyalty and charm think so little of himself? He was better than any male she could've had the pleasure of knowing. 

'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'and I want you to know I trust you, Azriel. You will do me no harm. You couldn't.' 

His eyes shuttered as he lowered them, brows still furrowed. He still held her wrist, so, pulling his arm with her, she reached out and stroked his brow with her thumb. She rubbed back and forth in gentle motions until that crease was gone, and he exhaled slowly. 

'I trust you, Azriel. So kiss me.' 

The moody veil of night lifted from his eyes, the tempest calming to a glistening haze. His heart still pounded, so wondrously loud as he leaned down, his free hand settling against her cheek. He was unhurried, tentative. 

It was agonising. Worse still, he paused with an inch of space between their lips. His night-chilled air and cedar scent blended with the smoke and wood of the fire, seductive as it crept into her skin and twined around her bones like ribbons of mist round pillars. 

With shadows flickering over his face, and the light so sultry beside them, his eyes were alluring. She'd never let herself notice that before. 'Kiss me,' she said faintly. 

Elain didn't breathe as his lips touched hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback/Constructive criticism welcomed :)


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